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It was two years ago that I sat on a quiet bench in the cool of the morning. Tim was by my side, coffee in hand. The mission camp was sleeping, save for the birds calling loudly to one another somewhere above us in the tropical trees. The sun was not high enough for us to hide our vulnerable skin.

Those around us had been preparing to return home, talking amongst themselves their readiness to leave. I said it quietly, as if a secret, "Am I the only one who isn't ready to go?" He smiled warmly in his thoughtfulness before he shared, "If it wasn't for our girls waiting for us at home, I could stay here."

And to place it before you simply, we did.

The past two weeks have felt like the sum of short lived days, traveling by in a blur. We wake with the sun, and lie down when it slumbers. And in all the moments between we live a life that we have never known before.

God's grace is present in all of this living. Right next door reside Tim and Chris Bagw…

I walk slowly along the shore line. The dark blue waves crest then curl over themselves before they break in a white foam that reaches for my feet. I don't want to move too far into the power of the sea where my steps become unsure.

I can feel the edges of it coming closer, touching me. There exists this certain sadness that I don't want to fully embrace. I fear that if I give myself to it, it will overtake me and I will drown. The thought catches in my throat making it hard to swallow.
I have spent the last week with the people who have grown me. My father, my mother, my sisters, our families. We have had so much time to sit and talk about nothing that matters, and somehow that means something when you know these moments will be fewer and farther between. We have laughed and loved and eaten too much food, sipped on coffee that no one could brew just right, scolded children, teased our patriarch and laughed even more.